


the same shade

by braigwen_s



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan, Ranger's Apprentice: the Early Years
Genre: M/M, Metanarrative, One 'F' Bomb, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27466753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braigwen_s/pseuds/braigwen_s
Summary: Two young leaders of the movement against Morgarath sit in the undergrowth of a forest.  Halt isn't a folkloric figure.
Relationships: Crowley Meratyn/Halt O'Carrick
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	the same shade

Halt looked at the grass under his feet, then looked back up at Crowley, the leader of his motley band. He always looked like some sort of folkloric figure, which irritated Halt inordinately, not because because he hated folklore and he didn’t match up to it. “I’m not some sort of self-sacrificial martyr like you are. I’d rather live to fight another day.”

“I’m not a martyr,” said Crowley. “I don’t want to die, Halt. I didn’t choose to be a figurehead. You picked me out, remember? You gathered everyone round and said ‘Crowley should be our leader. All in favour?’”

Halt, in his frustration, pulled a nettle out of the ground, crumbly brown soil spilling onto his tunic and his trouser-leg, and hurled it, between them both, into the brush. It stung his hands, but he barely felt it, and didn’t have it in him to care.

“What you just did is a perfect demonstration, in fact,” Crowley began, “of the fact that out of the two of us, you are definitely the martyr.”

“Shut up,” said Halt, growling it, curling his hand into a fist so as not to find another nettle and repeat it.

“Sure,” said Crowley. He shrugged. Halt watched the freckles on his skin. _I don’t want you to die_ , he thought, but he didn’t say it. _I’m worried about you_. He didn’t say that one either. Then Crowley looked up and met his gaze, trapping him in eye contact, a hapless hare or jackrabbit, before his reflexes could look away. His eyes were so green, it was unreal. They were exactly the same shade as oakleaves when sunlight was filtering through them. They didn’t look like a martyr’s eyes, or a hero’s, which surprised Halt; so much of the time, he did seem just like a hero. A lot of the time, his eyes did, too. _I want to be that oakleaf_ , realised Halt. _Crowley is the sunlight; I want him to filter through me_.

And then he realized that made no sense, and looked away. Damn him, damn himself, damn everything. He was getting poetic. There was no excuse for poetry.

“You know, Halt,” said Crowley’s voice, “I’ve been thinking about poetry.” Halt looked back over at him. His milky-pale fingers were playing with a leaf. _You don’t want to be that fucking leaf._ _Stop being ridiculous_.

“That’s a terrible idea,” he said. “Nobody should think about poetry.”

“So we should only think about war?” Some sort of folkloric hero who whistled as he fired his bow, and thought about poetry when hiding from an evil baron pretender to the throne. Normal people, like Halt, thought about adrenaline and their next move and when they could risk taking a break.

“What’s wrong with prose?” Halt said, and Crowley laughed. He drank it in.


End file.
